A Quest for Duck?
Life’s little episodes are sometimes unforgettable. And that can be a problem. The fact that it is often quite difficult to forget amazing experiences often creates an inner desire to go back to that place to experience that thing again, only to realize that that thing, whatever it was … is gone. Or different. Or not as amazing.
But we want it so badly that we keep trying and trying to get it. Are we disappointed when we don’t get it again? Sometimes. Do we immediately think of the next attempt? Often. Do we accept the fact that it can’t be obtained? Never. And that’s good.
We are all on … each and every one of us … an eternal quest for good duck.
I’ll explain. Several years ago on a trip to London, I ate the most amazing duck ever. It was juicy, it was crispy, it was gorgeous and sexy. Before that duck experience, I was not a duck man. I had been used to being served mediocre duck, so had completely quit ordering it. On the duckulence scale, mediocre duck is better than bad duck, true. But on the overall scale of taste and palatability, mediocre duck ranks right there next to lutfisk. In other words, about one in seven people likes mediocre duck. I am not that one.
My London duck experience, at Gung Ho in West Hampstead, changed all that. I sat and enjoyed the bird, completely oblivious to the world around me. As I slowly chewed away on these perfect morsels of tangy fowl, I realized that my life was about to change. The room was suddenly aglow with a rich, vivid golden colour.
I had been knighted. I had been chosen. I was the one. I would surrender my mortal existence and scrap everything to start anew.
From that point on, I have been on a magical quest for good duck.
My pilgrimage took me next to San Francisco. (Which was convenient because I lived there at the time and had to get back to work.) The next few months had me ducking in and out of shady little establishments in Chinatown and ordering duck in advance from more “reputable” restaurants. Duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, goose, I just never found it. I ate more duck during the months that followed my return from London than a mad coyote.
Truthfully, I am aware of the fact that I had some pretty damn good duck during that escapade. I am willing to admit that now. But at the time (before the intervention and rehabilitation), no fucking way. I could not bring myself to find the good duck, even if you duck-taped me naked to a chair force fed me with it. (Why naked? Why not?) Though rational about the whole thing now (sort of), I am still on that quest to get the good duck. And always will be.
The funny thing is that I returned to Gung Ho in West Hampstead a couple years ago. And ordered the duck, of course... Drum roll, please: It wasn’t that good. I mean… it was good, but it wasn’t THAT good. I don’t think it ever will be. But who cares. After all, it’s not about whether you get the duck or not, it’s about how you… yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.
This blog is not about fowl. Nor is it really about food, though many of my duck hunts involve food, so I may throw in the occasional idea or recipe now and then. But essentially, this metaphorical duck that I am now after is the same one that you are chasing. It’s that duck that you experienced as a child when you got your very first pet. It’s the time you got ducked for the first time in the back of your old VW. It’s those ducky, deep, late night talks that you had with that first girl/boyfriend. The duck is all that stuff and more. It’s all of those things that sparked your interest, that made you curious, that set you on your own quest.
But we want it so badly that we keep trying and trying to get it. Are we disappointed when we don’t get it again? Sometimes. Do we immediately think of the next attempt? Often. Do we accept the fact that it can’t be obtained? Never. And that’s good.
We are all on … each and every one of us … an eternal quest for good duck.
I’ll explain. Several years ago on a trip to London, I ate the most amazing duck ever. It was juicy, it was crispy, it was gorgeous and sexy. Before that duck experience, I was not a duck man. I had been used to being served mediocre duck, so had completely quit ordering it. On the duckulence scale, mediocre duck is better than bad duck, true. But on the overall scale of taste and palatability, mediocre duck ranks right there next to lutfisk. In other words, about one in seven people likes mediocre duck. I am not that one.
My London duck experience, at Gung Ho in West Hampstead, changed all that. I sat and enjoyed the bird, completely oblivious to the world around me. As I slowly chewed away on these perfect morsels of tangy fowl, I realized that my life was about to change. The room was suddenly aglow with a rich, vivid golden colour.
I had been knighted. I had been chosen. I was the one. I would surrender my mortal existence and scrap everything to start anew.
From that point on, I have been on a magical quest for good duck.
My pilgrimage took me next to San Francisco. (Which was convenient because I lived there at the time and had to get back to work.) The next few months had me ducking in and out of shady little establishments in Chinatown and ordering duck in advance from more “reputable” restaurants. Duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, goose, I just never found it. I ate more duck during the months that followed my return from London than a mad coyote.
Truthfully, I am aware of the fact that I had some pretty damn good duck during that escapade. I am willing to admit that now. But at the time (before the intervention and rehabilitation), no fucking way. I could not bring myself to find the good duck, even if you duck-taped me naked to a chair force fed me with it. (Why naked? Why not?) Though rational about the whole thing now (sort of), I am still on that quest to get the good duck. And always will be.
The funny thing is that I returned to Gung Ho in West Hampstead a couple years ago. And ordered the duck, of course... Drum roll, please: It wasn’t that good. I mean… it was good, but it wasn’t THAT good. I don’t think it ever will be. But who cares. After all, it’s not about whether you get the duck or not, it’s about how you… yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.
This blog is not about fowl. Nor is it really about food, though many of my duck hunts involve food, so I may throw in the occasional idea or recipe now and then. But essentially, this metaphorical duck that I am now after is the same one that you are chasing. It’s that duck that you experienced as a child when you got your very first pet. It’s the time you got ducked for the first time in the back of your old VW. It’s those ducky, deep, late night talks that you had with that first girl/boyfriend. The duck is all that stuff and more. It’s all of those things that sparked your interest, that made you curious, that set you on your own quest.
This site will be updated weekly with adventures, stories, dreams, exaggerations, yodels and recipes, all of which will help in detailing my quest for good duck. I’ll come very close to it, that much I know. But don’t be surprised if I loosen my grasp just enough to let it slip through my fingers just when you think that the pounce is unavoidable. Because to finally get the good duck sort of means, well, GAME OVER. And I’m not quite there yet - I just put my quarters in.
2 comments:
Eureka Duck!
Is that settling? Throwing in the towel? Or just being content? Is content bad? Lazy? Or finding happiness? Some days I’m pretty damn close to Eureka Duck, especially those warm suburban days when everything aligns just right. The warm Thursday evening after a productive day at work, coming home to the wife and kids who are equally happy, wherein you share the highlights of your day as you BBQ chicken in the back yard. The opening of a good ’98 Cab, sneaking a smoke around the side of the house, watching your kids chase each other and laugh and laugh. Kissing everyone goodnight as you leave for your 9:00 softball game with the boys. Arriving a half hour early to suck down 3 silver bullets before “Play Ball!” Making a play, laughing at your team mate fumbling a play, winning the game, raiding the local pizza shop after the game, watching the expression of 16 year olds behind the counter sour knowing that they just got sucked into working for another hour. Getting home before 11, waking up on Friday knowing the whole weekend is in front of you and just 8 hours away. To the Duck!
SRS
ALOT OF GOODDUCKS RAN THROUGH MY MIND JUST NOW.
but i guess ill just choose one to share right now.
it occured at a time of my life when life was effortless, & the potential for great things were boundless.
i was the only one smiling when we lost the soccer grand final in 1987 to our arch rivals belconnen united. while all of my team mates had disapointment written all over their faces, some were even crying. i useed words like "cheer up, at least we made it to the grand final. and what a game, losing by one goal." they didnt seem to be in the same zone.
that pretty much sums up my positivity.
their was a vinyl record my father & step mum owned, called " THE BOB SEGER COLLECTION".
dad, paulo(step mum), rado(sister), nate(step brother) & i would sing along to every song, with the speakers nearly popping, & the neighbours going out of their minds from the noise. sometimes these singing escapades would happen around midnight.
the feelings that album holds i cannot find anywhere. i guess you can call those feelings the GOODDUCK. in a way bob segers voice IS the GOODDUCK.
to this day i still cannot find that album on cd. the endless search for GOODDUCK.
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